Time to let it all out and make room for the new crazy. My thoughts aren't sophisticated or linear enough for a civil Stream of Consciousness, so I've made a space for it here. My own little but still important version of SOC; stream of consciousness: ugly style.
I call it LIM, loose inner monologue, and it's right here, where it belongs--out into the universe and out of my hen-pecked head.
Seriously, the role of blogging as a mental health tool is sadly overlooked.
This Week's LIM, Loose Inner Monologue: because streaming thoughts? Not so much. More like a karate chop response to my immediate environment.
Xrays are so weird. Looking at your Xrays must feel like someone shoving pictures of something you did that you didn't want seen right in your face. Like Matlock saying "aha! and you say you're not friendly with the butcher??! Then, what is THIS??!!" You know, like those horrible previews to that movie Side Effects May Include Murder, with Channing Tatum or Taming Chatham or whatever that Magic Mike's dancer's name is. I always want to write in to a celebrity magazine and ask "Is that Carol Channing's great grandson?" but then I remember we have google now.
Anyway, in that movie, his sexy wife needs a shrink because life just doesn't hold a spark for her anymore and she's restless. Her shrink lights up that spark, easy to do when you're JUDE LAW. Jude wants to make sure she's living life to the fullest so he gives her these little round pills that surprise! make her go crazy for Jude Law. Next day, her underwear is all inside out and she's got blood on her hands and whaa? Meanwhile, a stack of pictures arrives in the mail to Carol Channing's greatgrandson of his fire's-been-lit wife giving away Victoria's Secrets while in deeeeeeeeeeeep therapy with Jude and Channing flips through the stack and says "Honey? What's this?" in his "Hi, honey, I'm home" voice. Right, like it'd go down like that at my house.
I'll just make do with my nights of insomnia, thank you very much.
Anyway, Xrays. So you look at them, you trust your Doctor when he says they're yours, but you're like, whaaa? Those are my screwed up sinuses there? It doesn't help much with acceptance when the Doctor chimes in, "I know. Pretty bad pus pockets there." And then his nurse thinks he's just given her the okay to throw in her two cents worth, "Oh, yah. I saw dem and thought, oh holy cow but dose are some bad sinuses."
The sheet says those are my clouded sinus cavities, I have to believe them. I'll take comfort in the fact that my headaches now have a treatable cause and I can cancel my emergency appointment with the family lawyer for the will.
Acceptance in the face of evidence should be easy, maybe it is easy. For me, I can't believe something even when it's clearly there and undeniable. I'm sure if I had the time to google what that is, other than the word denial, that it's some sort of condition I have. But no time here.
Exhibit A: Denial in the face of the truth: I have felt great since I began sleeping, eating well, drinking water, exercising an hour a day, and quit the coffee.
I feel great.
But I still can't believe it's that easy to feel great. Heeeeeeeeeeeey, wait.a.minute! Let's try this: I don't want to believe it's that easy to feel great. I know what I have now--it's what Jack Nicholson screamed about in A Few Good Men. "The truth? You want the truth? You can't handle the truth!"
That's it. I don't like the truth. I don't want the sleep, the right food, the no coffee, the exercise, the water, to work. I had more time before I started taking care of myself. Now it's all about taking care of myself. Like I'm my own baby or something.
Damn. A revelation.
This LIM is beginning to pay for itself.
Have a mind that's more choppy than streamy? I invite you to write up your own Loose Inner Monologue post. Leave your link here. Admit it--just the mention of a brain dump and your thoughts are all jamming the aisle, like the last chopper out of Vietnam.
"One at a time, thoughts, one at a time ..."
photo credit: Steve took it via photopin cc